


some nights i call it a draw

by fimbulvetr



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 22:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16503887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fimbulvetr/pseuds/fimbulvetr
Summary: If August was firelight in darkness, then Sakuya is like the sun.





	some nights i call it a draw

**Author's Note:**

> Vague spoilers for Act 5. I imagine this is set before KniRoun, but that's not really important because absolutely nothing happens.

Not for the first time, Chikage has volunteered to pick Sakuya up from a part time gig. This means waiting outside the theatre for Sakuya to finish exchanging heartfelt goodbyes with each and every living soul inside the building.

The term “volunteered” is a technicality. The conversation had gone like this: Sakuya mentioning the theatre he was helping out at and Chikage commenting that he’d been past it before. At which point Chigasaki smiled, looking up from his phone to say, “It’s on the way back from the office, isn’t it? Why don’t you give Sakuya a ride home next time?”

It was amateur baiting at best, but Sakuya burst into flustered protests and to restore peace and quiet to the table, Chikage was forced to cut in with: “6 PM, was it?”

And now he’s sitting in his car in idle contemplation about the complex simplicity of one Sakuma Sakuya.

There’s something about Sakuya that makes people want to make him happy. It’s a quality some people spend a lifetime lying and cheating to hone, a quality that August shared. August was whip-smart and calculating beneath his warmth, a raging hearth in the dead of night, but Sakuya—

“Chikage-san! I’m so sorry I’m late! Have you been waiting long?”

Sakuya runs towards the car. His cheeks are flushed, red hair slightly tousled, haloed in the light of the sunset behind him.

If August was firelight in darkness, then Sakuya is like the sun.

Chikage hates the way he thinks that. He hates the thought itself—how saccharine and florid it is. He manages a smile and shakes his head no.

“It’s fine. Let’s get you home.”

Sakuya hops in the passenger side.

The aftertaste of the word ‘home’ lingers on Chikage’s tongue the whole ride back.

 

The rest of the night passes as quietly as a night at the dorms can. Chikage’s settled into Mankai easily, which never fails to surprise him. He’s always been good at keeping track of information—the little details that stand out, things that might be useful data to have in one’s pocket. The first week he was here, and even before that, he’d made it a point to gather as much intelligence as he could. That had always been his way of understanding people.

April saw the details. The Director chews her bottom lip when she’s about to say something she’s not sure about. The yakuza keeps his glasses in his breast pocket when he’s not wearing them. The scar on Omi's jaw is an old wound, caused by some kind of sharp trauma. That sort of thing.

These days, Chikage mostly just notes the patterns. Tonight is a non-curry fried rice night, because Tsuzuru’s in the kitchen. The Director went out for groceries in the afternoon, because that’s what happens on a Thursday. Chigasaki’s doing a livestream in their room, so Chikage’s barred until given the all clear in the form of a cheeky LIME message.

It’s utterly predictable and domestic. It’s home.

 

“Ah, thank god it’s the weekend.” Chigasaki yawns. The office chair creaks under him as he rolls himself backwards. “How was the ride home yesterday?”

Chikage drops the folder of documents on the empty square of the younger man’s desk.

“I’m only here to remind you the presentation’s on Monday,” he replies. “You should read these through.”

Chigasaki makes a non-committal noise.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he muses. “On Sakuya’s route, I mean.” A pause for effect. “Yandere bad end?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chikage deadpans.

Chigasaki has an agenda, Chikage’s sure. He wouldn’t be shocked if his junior had a betting pool going, with all his meddling and pushing when it came to the subject of one Sakuma Sakuya. In Chikage’s previous line of work this might even be a talent. Chigasaki could very well make an excellent asset give the right drive and the right direction.

Unfortunately, he has his sights set on an imaginary crush that Chikage most certainly doesn't have.

“You’re right, that might be more Masumi’s speed.” Chigasaki smiles. “Loosen up a little, Senpai. I’m working on it. You should too.”

Chikage returns the smile mirthlessly.

“Good. I’m taking my break.”

“I’ll have a soda, thanks in advance.”

“Not a chance, Chigasaki.”

 

By the time he gets home, most everyone’s either gone to bed or to their rooms. He finds Hisoka asleep in the lounge with the lights off.

Some of the members had started a game around the ongoing phenomena of people sleeping in unusual places. There was a complex location-based scoring system with points for photos. Citron and Chigasaki’s innovations gave birth to a “bonus round”, allocating extra points for the number of items that could be placed on the individual without waking them.

There lies a single mustard coloured sock on Hisoka’s chest. Chikage takes a quick photograph.

“… It doesn’t count,” says a soft, sleepy voice a few seconds later. “I heard you.”

“Shut up,” says Chikage. “Your eyes were closed.”

December’s green eyes always seemed to gleam in the dark. He may have been a stray cat tamed by the Organisation, but was no less a stray at his core. Mikage Hisoka is a different beast entirely, even if he still listens for the creak of an opening door and the soft thud of footsteps in the hall. Chikage has come to accept that.

Hisoka turns on his side and the sock falls to the floor.

“Someone was looking for you.”

“Who?”

A few seconds pass. No response.

Hisoka’s breaths are soft and even—he’s fallen asleep again, for real. There had been a time, recently, even, where that hadn’t been possible. April had seen to that.

Chikage picks up the sock and flings it back at him. Then he leaves the room, like a mature adult.

 

When he wanders into the courtyard he finds Sakuya there, doing some kind of callisthenics by himself. No doubt some sort of exercise he heard about from the resident exercise enthusiast. Chikage watches him for a moment—just a moment, any longer than that is lingering—before making his presence known.

“I don’t suppose you were looking for me?”

He keeps his tone light, so as not to sound expectant. Hisoka could have been talking about anyone. He’s difficult like that.

Sakuya almost trips. To his credit, he catches his balance, and hops around to face him on one leg.

“C-Chikage-san! Welcome home! —I was, actually!”

Sakuya, with both feet solidly on the ground, starts digging around in his pockets. After a second, he produces a pair of tickets, holding them out. It’s hard to make out what they are in the dim light.

“I was wondering if you’d like to come see a show with me Saturday night? It’s by a troupe I helped with a few months ago! It’s an adaptation of the Bluebeard story. Have you heard it before? Spring Troupe’s next show is a little while off, I know, but I was thinking it would be a good experience.”

“Why me? I’m sure any one of the theatre otaku would jump at the opportunity.”

“Ah, as thanks for picking me up the other day! And… Well, I’d really like to spend some time with you.” There it is again, the earnestness, the unnameable _thing_ that draws people into Sakuya’s orbit. “There are still a lot of things I don’t know about you, Chikage-san.”

“I’ll go,” Chikage says, carefully. Chigasaki would probably call this a flag, proof of something or another. “On one condition.”

“A coin toss?”

“It’s our tradition, right?” He produces the coin, the little sleight of hand trick he’s long committed to muscle memory, and flicks it into the air. Sakuya watches the coin—he always does—until the moment it’s gone from his eyes.

Chikage holds out his hands.

“Which hand?”

“Um… Left!”

He displays the empty hand.

“Wrong.”

“Let’s do best of three!”

Chikage shrugs. They do best of three, and when Sakuya loses, his shoulders sag exaggeratedly.

“I win,” Chikage declares. “Well, then it’s a date.”

"Eh?"

He delights in the bemusement in Sakuya’s face, just a little.

“I didn’t explain the condition, did I?”

Sakuya sighs.

“Chikage-san, you’re as complicated as always.”

Chikage hums in agreement, and plucks the ticket from the boy’s hand.

 

Most nights he manages to fall asleep before his roommate does. Chigasaki’s the type who gets the most done when no one’s watching—they’re similar in that regard. Most nights, Chikage’s able to fall asleep to the sound of keypresses in the low light, the faint vibration of sound leaking from Chigasaki’s headphones. Not tonight.

_What am I trying to prove?_ he wonders.

It's a frustrating slow fall into unconsciousness.

 

Saturday is a lazy day for Chikage, spent largely in silence. The silence of teenagers thundering up and down the stairs, cranky shouting from one end of the hall, distant laughter and muffled thumping, that is.

It's somewhere in the third hour of working on his laptop that he notices he's being watched from across the room. This is concerning for a number of reasons. The first reason being that it's a sign of being caught off guard. He already _knows_ he's too comfortable here and any reminder of the fact still feels wrong.

The second reason is the expression on his watcher's face.

Of all the members of Spring Troupe, Masumi might just be the easiest to understand. He's prickly, but he keeps his thorns on the surface and wears his heart on his sleeve. Masumi's gaze right now is all quiet intensity and suspicion, a look usually reserved for matters regarding one person. It says: _I'm watching you_.

Chikage says nothing and carries on working _._

 

Sakuya meets him at the door when it's time to depart, neatly dressed and bright-eyed. He chatters about his day as they make their way outside and into Chikage's car, about how Tsumugi had joined him and Tasuku on their morning jog, about how it had turned into a lengthy discussion on the play they were going to see. He carries on as they begin the drive. Chikage laughs in the right places.

The ride isn't long, and when he's out of things to talk about, Sakuya spends the time gazing out the car window, or humming along to the easy listening station Chikage didn't remember setting the radio to. It's comfortable, almost routine, enough that Chikage's chest feels like it might burst from the easiness of it.

"Bluebeard kills his wives in the story, doesn't he?" Chikage asks, breaking the lull in the conversation.

Sakuya's laugh is sheepish.

"That's right. It's a bit dark. I thought Chikage-san might like that, though."

It doesn't mean anything that Sakuya thought about what he might like. That's the way he is with everyone. _Tropical Sakuya_ , Citron would say. ( _Typical_ , Tsuzuru would amend.)

The corners of his lips turn up.

"Well, we'll find out."

 

Bluebeard _does_ kill his wives in the play, and Chikage _does_ enjoy it.

Sakuya smiles at him in a pivotal, thoroughly dramatic scene as if to say, "See?" and Chikage has to shake his head to hide his amusement.

They sit for a while after the curtain falls and the audience begins to file out. He expects Sakuya to get out of his seat and head for the backstage to talk to his acquaintances, but he stays seated, staring at the programme for the play until Chikage taps him on the shoulder to leave.

"—I could see myself as a Bluebeard," he muses as they walk.

The younger man looks up, meeting his eyes, expression unusually serious.

"Is it the type of role you'd like to play?" he asks.

"Isn't it the type of role that suits me?" Chikage's smile is a little bitter. "Or don't you think I have the range?"

"That's not what I mean," Sakuya replies, shaking his head vehemently. They're standing at the car now, the chatter of the departing audience thinning to background noise. Under the streetlight, Sakuya looks older somehow. He lowers his voice as he says, "I think you're amazing, Chikage-san."

The way he says it, it burns straight through the layers of logic and reason and history that tells Chikage otherwise. When Sakuya says it, Chikage can see the shadow of the person Sakuya believes him to be, and it's too much. The words hang in the air.

"Let's get you home," he says after a moment, and neither of them say anything more the whole ride back.


End file.
